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When Your Last Baby Graduates
The end of an era
My youngest graduated last month. There was actually a normal graduation ceremony this year, not a drive-through event like the class of 2020 had to have because of COVID. It was held outside, our local high school usually does it that way, and it was mostly the same as every other graduation I’ve been to: miserably hot, crowded, and obnoxious people who won’t stop talking. But I was there to see my child graduate so I focused on that while trying not to think about how much my skin was burning in the sun. Reader, I fried like a fish.
I watched him sit in the crowd of teenagers, his wild curls frothing around his cap, pink shirt collar poking above his billowing black gown, melting in the sun and humidity. Eventually, I heard them call his name and watched him walk across the staging area to shake hands with the principal and pose for the “official” photos that cost an arm and a leg. I saw him move his tassel with the rest of the class, officially a graduate.
And then suddenly, he wasn’t the gangly seventeen-year old anymore. He was the cuddly baby who took his longest naps snuggled on my chest. He was the toddler who would pull my face to his to give me an open mouth kiss. He was the three-year-old who thrilled in dancing to Bon Jovi and cooking with Mama, the six-year-old riding his bike solo for the first time. All of…
